An Inheritance of Tenderness
by thecircularsky
Summary: Two aging professors share an understanding that neither is willing to vocalize. Oneshot. 793 words.


**Author's Note: Anything you recognize belongs to J.K. Rowling.**

Stepping on a leaf that gave a satisfying "crack," Severus Snape briskly trotted across the grounds of Hogwarts until he came upon the magnificent greenhouses. Twisting his way through the narrow entry door, he came upon a comfortably familiar sight: Pamona Sprout, kneeling in her protective robes over a verdant row of plants, her begloved hands tenderly patting the soil.

Snape felt a pang of nostalgia for the old professor. Memories flooded his mind as he corrected his upwardly twisted lips.

"Ah, Severus," spoke Sprout upon recognizing she had a visitor. "Come in, come in. You must see how finely these are maturing…"

He followed her in and bemusedly examined the plants, seeing that as he had predicted earlier in the semester, their magical qualities were indeed ripening well. The elderly witch led him through her gardens, casually pointing out a success or an unaccounted failure, seeing that Severus knew of every plant's condition. Her voice spoke in a peaceful monotone laced with a touch of pride, but her vocal cords sagged wearily, producing a rough, airy tone.

As she led him along, he touched the leafy folds and spindly vines, feeling their surfaces. He pondered the beauty of the spell-less magic that pulsed through the greenhouse, invigorating his mind and animating his senses.

Sprout gave him a soft smile and paused.

"Perhaps you could assist me with something," she inquired.

Severus peered past the wrinkled skin and said, with traces of curiosity, "I do not foresee a problem with that."

She continued, "I am in the middle of depodding my Vandersnaps, and although in my youth I rather enjoyed the task, my hands are not as strong as they once were." Feeling her tug, a thick glove swept off her oversized fingers. Her enlarged joints cracked mercilessly when she made a fist.

"I understand, Pamona," said Snape with unusual gentleness. "That shouldn't be a problem. Would you prefer me to start immediately?"

She placed her ungloved hand to the heavy, black cloth stretched across his shoulder blades and cooed, "I don't care what the rest of the world thinks, Severus – You really are a dear." Her dark-ringed eyes teased him. "Right this way, now, over on the south end."

He began at once, naturally executing the task with little effort. Each movement was precise, mechanical, passionate. The blue-fingered woman let her eyes rest upon his back, brain engaged and heart slowly pumping.

He would suit, she decided. Ten years ago, she wouldn't have thought him ready for the task, but age had brought patience and a bit of love to the bitter man. She knew that as he cracked the pods he enjoyed hearing the delightful crunch while the magic-enriched juices drained into a clear glass jar. She knew that his mind was sharp enough to understand the complications that arose with having such a variety of magic in close proximity. But most importantly, she knew that he was a good man who had the capacity to show through example the love of Herbology.

Soon Severus had completed his task, and being satisfied with the eight ounces he had managed to obtain from the fruits, he turned to Professor Sprout.

Asleep in a dinged-up white metal chair, she clung to an oddly-shaped garden hoe. He smirked for a moment, then cleared his throat and upon her reveille presented her with the jar. She thanked him, then shooed him off, assuring him that she would call on him again if the need arose.

Through the door Severus walked, thinking of the pleasant old woman. He worried for her, because she showed every sign of respiratory illness but refused all offers he had made to brew her a restorative potion. Their visits pleased him, and as much as he hated to think of it, he wondered what would happen when she passed away. After all, Hogwards had not needed a new Herbology professor in eighty years.

He let his thoughts wander has he meandered across the pumpkin patch.

She watched the young man leave, watched his springy steps away from the greenhouse. As she uttered a monosyllabic word, the light flew out of the space, and she again sat in her chair.

Fighting to breathe, she pulled a vial from her robes. A drop of crystal liquid on her tongue numbed the pain. Her heart sung to the boy as it decelerated its contractions. She smiled as the breathing stopped and the image of his face smeared off into the darkness.


End file.
